


Minor Adjustments (One Shot)

by coldbrewcoffee



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Absolute fluff, Artist Steve Rogers, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Painting, Paris - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2691098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldbrewcoffee/pseuds/coldbrewcoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bucky and Steve take advantage of Paris' reputation as one of the largest art centers in the world.<br/>(Rated T for very mild description of nudity.)<br/>This is my first published work/attempt at fanfiction, and was written at, like, midnight. Please be gentle! c:</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minor Adjustments (One Shot)

“A French braid? Really?”

“Listen. You said ‘anything that you feel is right’. And this feels right.”

Of course, Steve winding his fingers artfully through Bucky’s hair had always felt right. Only this time, there was more of a purpose for what the others back in New York had no need of knowing about.

“Next you’re gonna tell me I should be naked.” When Steve didn’t answer, Bucky sighed in resignation. “have you always been into painting naked men? Or is that a new millennium thing?”

Steve only smiled, finishing the braid. He had always loved the color of Bucky’s hair: the shade of chestnut that captured early morning sunlight and threw it every which way; it always caught his attention on their daily runs. Now he only wished it was longer, so he didn’t have to abandon the feel of it on his skin just yet.

“What are you doin’ back there? I thought you had a painting to… paint.”

“Since you’re so eager. Strip and stretch out on the couch by the window.” Steve could see his old companion wondering when he’d become so blunt. Maybe that’s a new millenium thing.

He tried not to stare too openly at the rolling muscles in his back and shoulders, and the less-than-seamless conciliation of cold metal and warm flesh; the east-facing window allowed a thick beam of sunlight to gild the Winter Soldier’s impressive contour with gentle golden light. As he stared anyway, Steve’s stomach twisted when he thought of the other touches, the ones not as soft, that Bucky must have faced.

“Just… stretch out?” Bucky asked, picking at the thin white blanket that covered half of the elegant, ornate settee with gold-threaded cushion and heavy wood painted white.

Steve felt blush creeping up his neck as he looked upon all of Bucky — admittedly not for the first time, but that’s what it usually felt like. “Um, yeah, and just kinda— drop the blanket. Drape it over your legs. Like that, yeah.” He chuckled and cleared his throat, which suddenly felt dry and coarse. “Uh, hang on. One thing…”

He stood and began making his adjustments. The window was opened and the drapes untied; the vase of extravagant lilies from the bedside table was moved to the sill; and the coffee table was shifted half a foot to the left. The easel and utensils stood waiting, but the image still wasn’t right.

Steve stood over Bucky at the foot of the sofa, looking uncertainly down at him. “What is it?” asked the lounging man. Only he wasn’t lounging, he was too stiff.

“Can I move you? It’s just some minor adjustments.” They had touched plenty of other times, but even after all the nights alone in Stark Tower’s gym and on missions like these, this felt more intimate than the steamiest of their encounters (that Fourth of July celebration hadn’t been the only one with fireworks).

Bucky did that half-smile that drove Steve insane. “I told you. Whatever feels right.” His voice had taken on that thrumming, chest-deep tone that could have weakened any sensible soldier’s knees.

Steve began to readjust Bucky’s body. His movements were tender and hesitant, as he tried to make up for all the pain that hands not his own had caused. He worked his way up the couch; lifting and nudging and repositioning. When he reached the cold, overt metal arm, he held back.

It wasn’t that he hated the arm, nor mistrusted it; in all honesty, it frightened him. It frightened him to think of the memories it might stir (or worse, the animosities). Bucky saw it, Bucky saw everything; but he was patient, as patient as Steve had been with him. He nodded in encouragement, and nimble fingers bore the arm a couple of inches above Bucky’s stomach.

“Can you feel it?” Steve whispered. “Does it… does it feel?”

The Winter Soldier gazed up at him with contemplating, grey-blue eyes. “It’s a phantom touch,” he said slowly, “like I can only feel you because I know you’re there.”

Steve bit his bottom lip, smiling. “You always know I’m there.” He was so close he could smell Bucky’s skin. It was like breathing in their old neighborhood in New York, with traces of coffee and cheap cologne. Caught in the moment, he placed a gentle kiss on Bucky’s abdomen, and then his steel hand.

His breath hitched. “I felt that.” A shaky breath, and then a sigh. “Some artist. Can’t even start his own painting.”

Steve laughed. “Right, right. I’ll get started then.” A few more minor adjustments, and finally he was sitting on a barstool before the easel, pencil in hand. “Don’t move for a while. You’re perfect just like that.”


End file.
